


bloodlust

by surelytothesea (fourhorsemen)



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Forced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:18:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7521637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourhorsemen/pseuds/surelytothesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Pupils dilated. Fluttering pulse. Hitched breaths. Erik stared down in interest and forgot where he was for a moment, shifted his thigh so the fabric of the robe parted between Charles’ legs with a faint, murmuring rustle of expensive cloth. He felt the heat from his naked skin, saw the blush spread over his cheeks, down his neck, pale eyes followed the thin trail of blood that collected in the dip between his collarbones, flicked back up to rest on the trembling of perfect, red cupid's bow lips. Erik tilted his face and leaned down, drawn inexorably to the man. </i>
</p><p>  <i>“Do you want him?” he breathed on Charles’ mouth and the man’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He looked vulnerable, exposed, like Erik had stripped past his flimsy façade of calm, stripped past sheer silk that barely covered his modesty, even past pure, ivory skin and into his very self. Charles’ upturned face was raw, eyes full of hitherto veiled torment. Erik knew the answer. His face grew hard.</i></p><p> </p><p>Erik is an assassin. He disposes of a King, wages a vendetta and earns something more along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bloodlust

He stood in the shadows and waited for the resounding toll of the Citadel’s bell. 

A smirk pulled at his lips when he heard the sound ring thrice through the entire city, signaling curfew, the scant fifteen seconds before the Palace Gates would be barred off to all outside it. All the time he needed.

Those would be the King’s death knells.

He strode confidently through the shadows, arrived at the wrought iron portcullis and twisted it aside with a casual flick of his wrist, impaling the guards who had been lowering it before they could shout for help. His smirk widened as they gurgled helplessly, dark velvet blood bubbling through the gaps between their fingers as they clutched at their throats. He pulled the metal out of their throats with disinterest and twisted the structure back into place with quick hand motions.

It wouldn’t do to leave evidence.

Keeping to the shadows, he strolled through the courtyard, disposing of several guards along the way in increasingly elaborate ways. A nail between the eyes, a quick redirection of an army knife, and another choked with his own chainmail; it made the blood sing in his veins. His face contorted into a grin with each kill.

He reached the gates of the palace and surveyed the structure before him. There was no drawbridge but the gates were tall sturdy wood. Wood was impenetrable to Erik, much like anything non-metal. His eyes fell on the stone the castle walls were made of, black, blacker still in the night. He felt deep satisfaction flow through his veins and tingle in the tips of his fingers. 

Black meant iron.

He drifted his fingers over the rough surface, feeling the traces of iron within respond to his powers. He gripped on the energy, pressing the tips of his fingers tightly to the stone and pulled. The brick beneath his fingers juddered, shook and then flew out with a jolt. He laughed with malicious joy. Oh, how he’d love to tell the King about just how _accessible_ he had made his fortress, his _impenetrable_ castle.

If only he knew what Erik was capable of.  

His grin fell off his face, deep-set anger bubbling upwards, dark and consuming, the closer he got towards the man he hated with every breath. He slapped his palms on the wall, closing his eyes and channeled his energy through the wall until he could feel the very shape of it, and the ripple of every individual brick. He ground his teeth together, set his jaw and _pulled_.

The wall pulsated beneath his palms and then all at once, bricks fell out of place, jutting out like stone steps of a staircase, welcoming him into the structure. He grabbed one directly above his head and heaved himself upwards, his left foot found its place on a stone beneath immediately, naturally. He scaled the castle, a figure in the night, all the castles occupants unbeknownst to the assassin climbing their very walls. He made nimble movements, never losing his handholds or his steps, it was as if the castle itself was helping him… and very soon his hand fell on the opening of a window.

He braced himself for the inevitable shout of a guard who would no doubt be stationed at it and looked up cautiously when he heard nothing. He pulled himself up, and rolled sideways through the opening, jumping to his feet and looking around, eyes already well-adjusted to the dark.

No one. How careless.

He resumed motion and walked through the hall with light feet, no lamps along the walls to guide his way. He felt along the wall, tried to get a feel for where he was by using his powers to access the castle once again. He felt stirrings of the metal within but it was not enough to build a framework in his mind. He bit his tongue to suppress a growl of frustration.

He would have to find a guard.

He stalked through the castle silently, turned left and right through the maze of hallways until he heard a sound from the end of the hallway to his left. He tensed and waited.

He focused on it and identified it as a slight clang of metal coupled with the shiver of chainmail. The sound was unmistakably that of a guard shuffling about on his feet, trying to alleviate the ache of standing on guard for the better part of the night. Slowly, Erik took a step forward, molding himself to the wall of the hallway and soundlessly made his way towards the shuffling in the distance.

All too soon, he was but fifteen paces away from the dark, foggy outline of a man, standing against the opposite wall with a spear in his hand, set next to his body. Erik darted forward, closed the remaining distance and saw the man’s eyes widen, a sliver of light from the window near the end of the hall reflecting in his eyes before Erik slapped a hand over his mouth and put a dagger to his throat.

He saw the spear shiver in the man’s frozen left hand and smiled in satisfaction.

“You will do as I say, or I will slit your throat. If you disobey, I will memorize your face. I will find your family, your mother, your father,” he intoned, and his voice grew deeper with malice, “…your wife, your children… and I will kill them in their sleep,” Erik said lowly. His eyes bored into the wide, guileless and frightened ones of the guard. _Young_ , he thought dispassionately. Young and foolish.

The young guard nodded jerkily but Erik neither removed his hand nor the dagger. 

“Take me to the King’s chambers,” he said tonelessly and the guard stiffened. Erik pressed the dagger into the skin of his neck, deeper, enough for a shallow slice that made the man’s breath hitch with panic. He stumbled forward and turned, walked down the hall with stilted steps like that of a man on death row.

It felt like an age before they reached the throne room, wide and spacious. Erik nearly slit the man’s throat when his eyes fell on the throne. An abomination built for a despised King, it made Erik’s blood boil. It took longer still to navigate through the maze of hallways beyond the wide spacious room that led to the King and with every heavy step Erik felt his fury mount, begging for release.

It was when they reached the desired hallway that four other guards came into view, stationed before a large door with a sliver of light peeking through the bottom. The young guard in his grip struggled in his hold, ready to call out. Erik slit his throat with no hesitation, felt hot blood spurt onto his fingers as the guard’s lifeless body fell to the floor with a thud, alerting the other four to his presence.

They charged towards him with loud roars that lodged in their throats when the coins in Erik’s pocket shot out and flew right through their necks, back out and looped their way back into Erik’s outstretched palm. The coins were coated in blood. He lips quirked in a wry smile.

He walked towards the King’s chambers, each step loud and ominous in the hallway lit by a single torch mounted on the wall across the door he was to go through. He stood in front of the door that acted as the sole barrier between his knife, and the man whose heart he would carve out tonight, whose vile head he would impale on a spike. He felt his blood sing and come to the surface of his skin, filling him with adrenaline and violent excitement.

His breath quickened and he put a palm to the door. Wood. He paused, focused deeper, thrust his powers over the unyielding material until it reflected back at him. A wooden door with an iron lock. A manic grin overtook his face as he unlocked it, the sound of the lock clicking open was music to his ears. He threw the doors open but did not charge into the room like he wanted to. Instead, he walked in carelessly, twirling his dagger through his fingers and hyper-aware of the other weapon strapped to his thigh.

With a twitch of his fingers, he flung the door behind him shut and locked it.

“What in the name of – ” he heard the King sputter, looking up from where he lounged in his bed, his room lit brightly by moonlight and the excessive amount of candles around them. So bright, it was almost as if it was daylight… Or perhaps it was to Erik, who had been in the comfort of the shadows for so long, a predator waiting to strike. Erik let the grin on his face widen, stretched mouth revealing two sharp, formidable rows of teeth.

“Hello, Shaw,” he said, voice light as a breeze and intent heavy as an anchor, plowing through the ocean’s currents. Shaw froze. He saw a calculating look pass over the man’s slimy features as beady eyes tracked the movement of the dagger still twirling between his fingers effortlessly. The initial surprise melted into a kind, paternal expression that made Erik’s hackles raise and made his mouth twist in disgust.

“Erik, it has been so long, my boy. I’m glad you could pay a visit, although the hour is…” here he laughed, airily and Erik clenched his fist, “rather inconvenient,” he concluded, voice hardened but smile unwavering; gimlet eyes were trained on Erik. 

“I’m not here to visit you,” Erik spat, wanting nothing more than to dig his knife into the man’s chest, the man who murdered his mother when the door to the adjoining room opened unexpectedly, a soft, light voice filtering through.

“You requested me, Sire,” Erik heard before a young man appeared in the light, clad in a sheer, translucent robe that hardly covered any of his pale skin. Erik’s breath caught in his throat as he stared. His eyes roved over gentle brown curls, framing an angelic face with large blue eyes, a strong nose, a plush, delicate mouth. He looked like a boy of sixteen, hardly even come of age. Erik felt a throb of arousal unlike any he’d felt before.

“S-Sire?” the man gasped questioningly, mouth gaping open, eyes fixed on the dagger in Erik’s hand, his arm raised and poised to strike. Strangely, Erik felt panic that was not his own permeate the room but was swiftly distracted when Shaw opened his fat mouth. Erik spun around with a growl.

He was here for Shaw. His… _bedwarmer_ was of no importance to Erik.

“Charles, my dear. Erik here is an old friend. He’s just a little… enraged,” Shaw drawled a thin note of amusement in his voice that made red flash before Erik’s eyes. He inhaled deeply and all the metal in the room began to quake. The dagger in his hand flashed red-hot, like a freshly forged sword struck with a hammer. He saw Shaw’s eyes widen in alarm. Erik grinned sharply, the metal sung to him, he could feel his energy pulse in the air around him and every metal object began to float menacingly. Through his periphery, he could see Charles stiffen and wrap his arms around his torso in apprehension.

Shaw’s eyes narrowed, calculated the distance between them and the amount of time Erik would take to leap onto the bed and stab his searing dagger into his chest. For a moment, no one in the room breathed, suspended in time. Then, Shaw bellowed, “ _Charles_!” and Charles sprang towards a vase, smashed it and grabbed a ceramic shard in his hand, arm halfway raised. Erik’s eyes widened, cataloged the threat – non-metallic, an easily thrown projectile, sharp – and then next moment he held his dagger to Charles’ pale unblemished throat.

Erik’s body was pressed against his, the petite man backed into the wall. He glared at him fiercely and took a hold of his wrist, crushing the fragile appendage in his long fingers, then slammed his arm into the wall hard enough that the ceramic shard fell out of his palm and shattered on the floor. Charles’ breath stuttered, blue eyes were blown wide with fear, pupils dilated and lower lip quivering. He swallowed and the dagger nicked his Adam’s apple, a red drop of blood slid down his throat slowly into the dip between his collarbones.

Erik’s eyes followed it down, down to the translucent material just barely hanging onto the man’s slim shoulders, to where he could see his dusky pink nipples through the fabric. He mouth went dry and his grip on the man’s wrist tightened, fingers digging into his pulse. He felt and heard the man inhale sharply, felt his pulse quicken beneath Erik’s fingers. He pressed closer, caging him further and locked eyes with the blue-eyed man. Charles shivered and blinked up at him.

Pupils dilated. Fluttering pulse. Hitched breaths. Erik stared down in interest and forgot where he was for a moment, shifted his thigh so the fabric of the robe parted between Charles’ legs with a faint, murmuring rustle of expensive cloth. He felt the heat from his naked skin, saw the blush spread over his cheeks, down his neck, pale eyes followed the thin trail of blood that collected in the dip between his collarbones, flicked back up to rest on the trembling of perfect, red cupid's bow lips. Erik tilted his face and leaned down, drawn inexorably to the man.

“Do you want him?” he breathed into Charles’ mouth and the man’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He looked vulnerable, exposed, like Erik had stripped past his flimsy façade of calm, stripped past sheer silk that barely covered his modesty, even past pure, ivory skin and into his very core. Charles’ upturned face was raw, eyes full of hitherto veiled torment. Erik knew the answer. His face grew hard.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” he hissed and Charles shook, the hand restrained by Erik seized and his body trembled where it was trapped by Erik’s own. He looked like a lost boy, eyes unseeing, naïve… An innocent. Erik imagined now, how Shaw would have forced himself upon a boy as pure as this, probably when he was even younger still and the thought made bile rise in his throat. 

No sooner had Erik said this and the man screamed.

“ _Erik, behind you_!” the voice reverberated through his skull, horrified blue eyes swallowed his vision. Erik reeled back, hands coming up to his head as he swayed on his feet. A slender, pale hand removed the dagger holstered to his thigh and hurled it over his shoulder. It was Shaw’s scream of pain that finally cut through the haze in his mind. He staggered as he turned around.

Shaw had fallen to his knees, an ornate knife with the Genoshan seal gripped in his right hand which now sagged against the floor due to the dagger lodged in his right shoulder. “Charles,” he breathed, looked back at him; Erik saw his ashen face, eyes open in abject fear as Shaw shouted obscenities at him.

“You foolish boy! You fucking _whore_. How dare you betray your own King!” Shaw raged, eyes blazing with fury, the same fury Erik had seen when the man had threatened to have his mother _beheaded, how dare you refuse the King, peasant filth_ , bringing forth memories that consumed him and left him a shell of a man, overtaken with rage.

Erik roared, kicked Shaw’s hand as he scrambled to raise his knife, ripped his own dagger out of the tyrant’s shoulder and stabbed him upwards through the chin. Erik watched as blood gurgled out of his mouth with dark amusement, shuddered in pleasure as he saw the light leave Shaw’s eyes, head impaled on a peasant’s dagger. When the light had all but left the King’s eyes, Erik pulled his dagger out of his head, grinning wide when his hot blood spurted over his face, dripped over his face. He did not wipe the dagger. He wanted the memento of Shaw’s crusted blood on a blade he had forged by hand.

He remembered Charles presence when he turned around and saw the man shivering in fear, back flush to the wall, arms wrapped around himself as he rocked back and forth on his feet, terrified eyes trained on Shaw’s corpse. Erik walked towards him with a smirk, teeth stained with blood, put his hand on his shoulder and sullied the white fabric with the tyrant King’s blood. Arousal swam through him and pooled in his gut. His thirst for blood and attraction to Charles muddled together until his desire was keenly focused on but one thing.

He raised his other hand, put a thumb to Charles’ chin and raised his face slowly as he resumed the position he had been in but five minutes before, pressed from chest to thighs to a beautiful man… a man who had helped him seek his revenge. Erik unsheathed his dagger, the slick sound of the blade made Charles’ freeze, an expression of shocked betrayal overcame his soft features. Erik chuckled and raised the blade slowly, Charles followed it with eyes and shuddered when Erik touched the bloody tip to his lips and softly grazed the bottom one until a line of Shaw’s blood covered it like rouge.

Charles' eyes fluttered and his chest rose and fell rapidly. Erik leaned closer and his hands sprung up and grabbed him by the upper arms, keeping him at bay. Erik tilted his head in amusement and stared down at the frightened man.

“What, what are you doing?” Charles said hoarsely, voice timid and scared. Blue orbs locked with his and Erik brushed a thumb over Charles’ bottom lip, smudging blood over it and leaving it glistening. The candlelight around them cast flickering shadows over Charles’ pale skin and Erik could only imagine how he himself looked in the half-light, face covered in blood and grinning with lunacy. A wolf and the pure white lamb, he thought dryly.  Erik stared down at him and contemplated his answer.

“Thanking you,” Erik settled with, with a wry quirk of mouth and put his lips to Charles’. Charles gasped, mouth opening under his and Erik plundered it with a groan. He laved beautiful, perfect lips with his tongue, stained red with his enemy’s blood, delighted at the copper taste. His hands gripped the man’s waist, his thumb dug into his sharp hipbones, protruding through the fabric of his robe. Nails dug into his upper arms and Erik slowly receded, Charles chased his lips, eyes closed tightly and brows furrowed; the picture of want.  

Charles blinked his eyes open, looking irritated. He immediately became subdued when he realized what kind of man he was in the arms of. A beautiful whore in the arms of a ruthless assassin, it was like a ribald tale regaled by brutes in a tavern, obscene descriptions inciting vulgar images in the minds of lesser men controlled by their basest desires. He supposed he was one of them now.

Erik let out a dirty chuckle that made the beauty in his arms bristle. He clenched his jaw, perfect red lips pinched closed and Erik felt regret, for a moment. If only he had the chance, he’d never stop kissing that mouth, keep it opened wide, around his lips, around his cock. 

“Is that how assassins thank their unwitting accomplices? By kissing them?” Charles suddenly spoke, a spark of wit that made Erik’s eyes flit back up to his eyes. Charles instantly looked petrified, as if he himself couldn’t believe the words that had left his mouth unbidden. Erik grinned slowly and his eyes roved over Charles in a new light.

“Only the pretty ones,” Erik said huskily and Charles bit his lip but his pupils blew wide. A candle sputtered with flame, a quiet sound amplified loud in the charged atmosphere. It was finally what brought Erik crashing to reality. His grin receded, his face smoothed out into the impassive, nonchalant expression he was far more accustomed to wearing.

He removed his hands from Charles’ waist, his eyes flit cursorily over the bloody palm prints he’d left down his left side but it incited nothing more than a low burn of desire, easily ignored. His arousal took second place to his responsibility. His job was done.

“Goodbye Charles,” he said,  in a voice without inflection. He turned his back to the whore and unlocked the door with a gesture. 

“ _Wait_!” he heard Charles shout in desperation and almost did not turn around if it were not for the fingers that wrapped around his forearm. He turned halfway and subjected Charles to a raised eyebrow. The man floundered, pretty mouth opening and closing as he searched for something to say. 

“You can’t leave me here!” he finally burst out and Erik’s face fell into a scowl. Clingy. Perhaps he should dispose of him. A shame, he was such a beauty. Erik’s hand fell onto the dagger strapped to his thigh, the very same Charles’ himself had thrown in Erik’s defense, how ironic. Charles froze as if paralyzed.

“No, no, no! You killed the King, but I was here. Everyone knows I was here. I’ll be implicated in his murder, they’ll behead me! You cannot leave me here,” Charles said frantically and Erik was surprised to hear the note of steel in his voice that grew stronger as he went on. Erik scrutinized him, curiously taking in his rigid stance, unyielding, even when so vulnerable.

Erik could turn around in a half-second, plunge his dagger into the boy’s chest, through that flimsy, useless piece of clothing that adorned him and Charles would drop dead. Yet, the man stood in front of him, fearless but for the tremble in his fingers and the quivering of his bottom lip. He wasn’t a simple, naïve boy as Erik had initially assumed. Cold intelligence was concealed behind childlike blue eyes and an alluring smile. Charles knew the power he held, but unlike most, he knew how and when to use it.

Erik had underestimated him.

“Well come on, then,” he said, casually and heard Charles murmur in confusion. Erik dragged him by the hand into the hall, closed the door and locked it as if nothing had occurred. Tomorrow, the King would be found dead in his room, slaughtered like a pig and the Citadel bells would chime not for curfew but a funeral. Erik felt satisfaction settle deep into his bones.

“Wait, my clothes, I-” Charles sputtered, an indignant pout on his face and Erik grinned sardonically.

“What are you wearing right now then, if not clothing?” Erik mocked, leered at Charles openly and Charles glared at him, entirely unappreciative where just minutes before he had been shuddering in Erik’s arms. Erik nearly snorted. _A man full of surprises,_ he thought.

“This is not decent,” Charles hissed, trying in vain to pull his robe further inwards, covering his chest with the cross of his arms. Erik raised his eyebrows. Not a whore then. He rolled his eyes, before shrugging off his rather spartan, black coat, worn more as a layer against the cold than for any sartorial preference and placed it over Charles’ shoulders.

Charles looked at him, startled by his inadvertent kindness and Erik’s scowl returned.

“Come, before I leave you here,” he snapped and Charles followed at his heels.

It was not until Charles was gasping his name through a litany of moans that night that Erik realized.

Charles had not opened his mouth when he’d saved Erik’s life.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even going to pretend this wasn't just all an excuse to put Charles in barely-there clothing (and at Erik's mercy). It was also to wax poetic about James McAvoy's beautiful lips, hair, skin, and well, everything. 
> 
> (I will love anyone who tells me how I could have ended this better. The ending is awkwardly phrased, way less subtle than I wanted and leaves a lot of to be desired as far as satisfactory writing goes. I will also love comments in general.)
> 
> EDIT: I cannot believe it, but I actually found[ a gif of McAvoy ](http://33.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mapyqgJQ5C1qmoz1zo2_500.gif) that almost perfectly captures the following description: "His eyes roved over gentle brown curls, framing an angelic face with large blue eyes, a strong nose, a plush, delicate mouth." It is from a movie McAvoy did in 2001, called "The Pool." (Sometimes I think this man might actually be an angel, look at that face jesus)


End file.
